[ Maia can tell, even amidst his dawning panic, that he is being managed, treated like a skittish horse, and he isn't sure whether to be annoyed or grateful. Perhaps he may be a little of both. Still, it is a great relief to see the amusement sparkling in Geralt's eyes (an interesting color - not quite red or orange enough, for a goblin, but not the greys or blues or greens Maia is accustomed to seeing with elves) and to hear his reassurance that he came with no expectations of romance. Maia exhales, a wordless noise of relief.
Geralt's teasing is equally effective; Maia, though he tries to hold it back, dissolves into a quick fit of giggles, which quickly dispel any of the lingering awkwardness. He seems somehow younger when he laughs. It is good, to be teased a little. Back at the Untheileneise Court, no one would dare, unless they were an enemy doing so out of spite, not fearing the consequences. But for all that Geralt seems to recognize he's someone of high rank, he doesn't treat him with fear, and... it's really nice, actually. ]
It is true, we could rid ourselves of half a dozen enemies in that manner. What a masterful idea. We are shocked our secretary never suggested it to us as a strategy.
[ At that moment, a waiter comes by their table, and the conversation is interrupted as the man asks if they would like any wine. Maia waits for Geralt to choose, and then requests a glass of the same - he had meant what he said, about not wanting it. By the time the waiter has swept off again, he is feeling at ease, surprisingly light-hearted. He has never been the best, at conversing with strangers, but... then, the stakes are somewhat different, here. The whole room is not watching him, listening to him. They will not all spend hours dissecting every word he says. Here, he is... just Maia. There is room for mistakes.
So, a little less haltingly than he'd been speaking before, he says: ]
Though, in sooth, the court has done a more than adequate job inventing scandals of their own about us to fall into a frenzy over, without ever requiring our aid. They are so wonderfully self-sufficient that way. After all... after all, we were, ourselves, a backwater hobgoblin who was never meant to come anywhere near the throne. If we were to take some wildly inappropriate lover, chances are, half of them would say they had always seen it coming, and what else could you expect, really, from a... [ And he trails off, leaving Geralt to fill that gap in with whatever colorful and foul insults might spring to mind. ] ... from someone like me.
[ It is purposeful, that small shift into informality - 'me', rather than 'us'. Conspiratorial, and friendly. ]
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Geralt's teasing is equally effective; Maia, though he tries to hold it back, dissolves into a quick fit of giggles, which quickly dispel any of the lingering awkwardness. He seems somehow younger when he laughs. It is good, to be teased a little. Back at the Untheileneise Court, no one would dare, unless they were an enemy doing so out of spite, not fearing the consequences. But for all that Geralt seems to recognize he's someone of high rank, he doesn't treat him with fear, and... it's really nice, actually. ]
It is true, we could rid ourselves of half a dozen enemies in that manner. What a masterful idea. We are shocked our secretary never suggested it to us as a strategy.
[ At that moment, a waiter comes by their table, and the conversation is interrupted as the man asks if they would like any wine. Maia waits for Geralt to choose, and then requests a glass of the same - he had meant what he said, about not wanting it. By the time the waiter has swept off again, he is feeling at ease, surprisingly light-hearted. He has never been the best, at conversing with strangers, but... then, the stakes are somewhat different, here. The whole room is not watching him, listening to him. They will not all spend hours dissecting every word he says. Here, he is... just Maia. There is room for mistakes.
So, a little less haltingly than he'd been speaking before, he says: ]
Though, in sooth, the court has done a more than adequate job inventing scandals of their own about us to fall into a frenzy over, without ever requiring our aid. They are so wonderfully self-sufficient that way. After all... after all, we were, ourselves, a backwater hobgoblin who was never meant to come anywhere near the throne. If we were to take some wildly inappropriate lover, chances are, half of them would say they had always seen it coming, and what else could you expect, really, from a... [ And he trails off, leaving Geralt to fill that gap in with whatever colorful and foul insults might spring to mind. ] ... from someone like me.
[ It is purposeful, that small shift into informality - 'me', rather than 'us'. Conspiratorial, and friendly. ]